


Can't You Hear the Wild Music?

by Lil_Redhead



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War I, F/M, World War I, a lil sad, but it'll be worth it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-04-20 12:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14260935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lil_Redhead/pseuds/Lil_Redhead
Summary: When the Great War sweeps away all of Canada's able young men, Anne and Gilbert must endure leaving one another and gain the strength to fulfill their duties. A story told through narrative and letters.





	1. The Piper Calls

**Author's Note:**

> This story assumes that the events of Anne of Green Gables occur near at the beginning of the 20th century, making Anne and Gilbert nineteen-years-old at the beginning of World War I. In terms of Anne with an E, this takes place shortly after Gilbert has arrived home from his travels.

  "The Piper is coming nearer," he said, "he is nearer than he was that evening I saw him before. His long, shadowy cloak is blowing around him. He pipes—he pipes—and we must follow...round and round the world. Listen - listen - can't you hear his wild music?" - Walter Blythe,  _Anne of Rainbow Valley_   

•

The news crept into the house like a stream of black smoke slipping under the doors, and settled smooth and sharp over them. It came from a shadow in the corner, a tall and lanky figure that snuck in when Mr. Barry hand delivered the news to the Cuthberts on a crumpled sheet of paper. Anne was the only one who knew it was there. The shadow watched her, and watched her, but ever resolute, she refused to meet its inky eyes.

Finally, she turned her chin over her shoulder, and gave it her best venomous glare. She saw nothing but darkness, and the vague outline of a wooden pipe. A shiver ran down Anne's spine, but she only clutched her hands to her elbows and whispered a low warning.

"You listen here. You stay away from my friends, hear that?" she spat bitterly. Had anyone else been in the room, they would have thought her resolution had finally broken and given way to insanity. But Anne knew she stared at a darkness that could devastate the ground from beneath Canada's feet - the entire  _world's_ feet, even her own. The image of soft eyes and midnight curls flashed across her eyes, and her throat closed. "Don't you  _dare_ take him. Don't you dare take Gil-"

Marilla calling from the adjacent room interrupted Anne from finishing. The crumbling redhead brushed away hair sticking to her sweaty forehead, straightened her back, and walked to the dining room table.

"England has declared war on Germany. They will begin taking volunteers at dawn," Matthew said grimly.

Anne's heart dropped to her stomach, and the color of her face drained to the floor. One of her hands reached out to grip the edge of the table to steady herself, but still the world swirled and swirled.

She needed air. She needed to see those July stars that had seen billions of dawns come and go, faithful trickles of light that would stay the same no matter who came and went. Shaky feet carried her into the fields on rushed and messy steps until she stumbled, crumbling to the soft ground on her knees.

Vision hazy with tears, Anne lifted her face to the sky.

"Please don't take him... I'll do anything, just  _please_ don't take him..." 

 •

But Gilbert was born with the earth's blood coursing through his veins, a proclivity for wandering and seeing. He'd gotten it from his father, and his father before him, and he wondered if he would ever pass it on to his own sons. Maybe he'd spill all his blood in a distant land and it would return from whence it came, only to be born in someone else one day. That was the hopeful thing about war, he supposed. No matter what happened to him, the earth would be reborn in someone else. Another dawn would come.

Sitting alone in his empty house, Gilbert clutched his fists together.

He was going. That much he had decided. Once England had declared war on Germany, it had become a family matter. Canada must go her mother's aid and bring all her young men along with her. Who was he to wait home for change? Yet, if the choice was so clear, then why could he barely lift himself from his chair?

He knew why, he realized wretchedly. Young lads didn't go off to war to live. They went to fight and they went to die. Everything Gilbert wanted was here - medical school, the last remnants of his family's house, the familiar scent and scenery of home, and a pair of grey eyes that made him close his own for fear he might whimper.

How could he leave her? Especially after he had just returned.

Gilbert ambled to his window and leaned against the dusty window frame. He rubbed the side of his fist along the chill, murky glass to clean some of the dust away and peered up at the stars.

Was Anne looking at the same stars right now?

•

She was indeed, he discovered with a thrill. He wasn't sure what he had expected to find here in the Cuthbert's field past sunset, but it certainly wasn't Anne sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees gazing up in the moonlight.

In that moment, she was an ethereal image more romantic and beautiful than any poem she'd ever recited, more ghostly celestial than any myth or legend. She cried crystal, and it trailed down her cheeks like falling stars. Gilbert could see the eleven-year-old dreamer who still sat alive in the body of this nineteen-year-old woman, and it reminded him of those early days where it first began.

"Anne," he called out. Her face turned toward him, and she wore a surprised expression. The safe distance between them allowed her the opportunity to shield herself, but to his elation, she didn't run away. In fact, stood and faced him. Then within seconds, she had collapsed into his arms in an exhausted sort of way and pressed her face into his neck.

"Don't you dare say anything, Gilbert Blythe," she demanded sternly, grasping him tighter. "Anything you say tonight will surely result in me despising you forever. I want to live one last night without fear." Complying with her command, Gilbert nodded and stroked her hair. The distant smell of wildflowers greeted him, as if she had worn flowers in her hair earlier that day.

It was the first time they'd embraced like this. There were embraces before - quick, impulsive things that came from their own excitement - his return home after two years overseas, her scholarship to Queens Academy, his acceptance to medical school. There were even some lingering glances that any half witted romantic would see the longing in. But this embrace right now - it was more than that of the children they used to be.

When they broke apart, Anne bit her lip and looked fearfully at her toes.

"I changed my mind. I've decided that I'd like to hear your decisions directly from you and not from Rachel Lynde," she stated. Then she peered up at him through her auburn lashes and held her breath. "Why have you come, Gilbert?"

If she had spoken the word right then and there, Gilbert was positive he would have stayed. He would have stayed right here by her side, brushing hair from her pale cheeks in the moonlight.

"I had a feeling you'd be looking at the stars," he said simply. Anne was tempted to avoid the heavy conversation, but prolonging the inevitable would only make it impossible to breathe. Perhaps if he told her the truth, perhaps if she asked straight out, the weight could be lifted off of her heart - at least, some of it.

"Are you going to go, Gilbert?" she asked quietly.

Gilbert longed to give her an answer that wouldn't make her cry again, but he knew lying would be of no use. If she wanted deceptions, she wouldn't have asked. She would have lived in a blissful ignorance. How could he soften the news?

With reverent hands, Gilbert took Anne's wind chilled hands in his and lifted them to his lips.

"I would - I  _wanted_ to stay here in Avonlea, Anne. I thought I'd finally seen enough of the world, that I could finally come home and settle down with the person I wanted to go through life's journey with." She looked up at him, a mix between devastated and exultant. "I wouldn't have left in the first place if I'd known I'd been leaving you again so soon."

The adoration in her eyes didn't fade, but it was overshadowed by something akin to overwhelming grief.

"Just say it, Gil," she half whispered, half whimpered.

"I'm going to town in the morning to enlist."

Bitterness cut through Anne, and suddenly, she wished she had never asked. Of course he was going. In mind and soul, she'd always known he would enlist and ship himself off to fight. But her heart had won the battle, and it thrived off of the small hope that perhaps Gilbert hadn't decided to go after all. She turned away, and covered her mouth with her hand. Every part of her ached, each nerve and muscle.

The selfish depths of her soul wanted to know, what was she to do when he was away? Simply endure the uncertainty if he would ever return?

But most of all, she wanted to know, why did it have to be him?

"I'm okay," Anne said weakly through her tears. She still couldn't look at him, couldn't bear to let him see her crumbling beneath her own skin into a broken woman. Maybe if she said it again, it would become real. "I'm okay." 

Gilbert came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her trembling frame. Anne relaxed into his bravery and strength. Soon, she would have to be strong for him, but just for this night, he let her cry away her fears and heartache.

With a kiss in her red hair, he made a vow sealed by golden moonlight.

"I  _will_ return, and when I do we shall finally be at peace - just you and me, Anne."  

•

Seven days passed in a blur for Anne as she crept toward the day that would take Gilbert away. She tried - failingly - to not think about how their goodbye could be the last time she would ever see him. But he  _promised_ that he would return. Maybe Gilbert's promise was stronger than the will of fate.

The roar of the train gearing up to take the soldiers away was deafening in Anne's ears as she clutched Gilbert's hands in her own. How she longed to hold tight enough that he would stay at her side as the train would drive away. But time was ticking faster and faster with each second. She squeezed even harder to memorize the warmth of his touch.

"Anne..." Gilbert said, almost miserably as his own bravery failed. Her face shot up to him. She needed to be strong for him. She certainly didn't want to leave him with an image of her crying pitifully in his mind. Ignoring the tear streaks on her dimples, Anne smiled lovingly up at the man who'd grown into one of her closest companions, a true kindred spirit, the quiet lover that made up her childhood ideals. Did he even know how she truly felt? Taking a deep breath, Anne spoke just loud enough for him to hear her over the surrounding cacophony.

"I love you, Gilbert Blythe. Come home someday."

Gilbert did what any man might do upon hearing words he expected to only hear in his own imaginations. He kissed her. He kissed her strong and hard right there on the train platform where everyone could see and he did not care a single bit. Let them see! Anne Shirley just told him that she loved him! Certainly all the evils in the world could be conquered if this exquisite wonder of a woman loved him!

He broke away when he heard the last boarding call. Through the lump in his throat, he spoke his confession.

"And I love you, Anne-girl. I won't make you wait long."

He boarded the train as quickly as he could so that he could open his window and reach down to her again. Her arm was almost too short to grasp his fingers, but she just managed to slip a folded sheet of paper into his hands. He bent to press a kiss to her knuckles as the train picked up its pace. It stung when she let go, but the memory of her warmth carried him down the train tracks toward the Eastern front.

On that train platform as he rode away, Anne vowed to herself that she would be the heroine of this story. Gilbert would sail away and take rifle in hand to defend justice and goodness, and so too would Anne fight for their happiness and faith with all of her strength.

•

When the time was right, Gilbert opened the slip of paper Anne had handed to him and read it over several times. It was one of her poems written in delicate script he'd recognize anywhere. He pressed it to his lips and read it again once more.

_"Though rock and sea_

_Should us divide,_

_And you I cannot see,_

_Still think of the one_

_Who loves you_

_And you'll think_

_Of me."_

_Signed, Your Anne_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Credit to the poem goes to a World War I soldier, Private Ed Hall. The following chapters will mostly be told through letters as Anne and Gilbert correspond across the Atlantic. Let me know what you think!


	2. Part II: August 11th, 1914

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to quick post this while I had the time to write it (but not quite the time to edit it terribly much, so forgive me!) I hope you enjoy the first letter exchanged to our Officer to his lady love back at home!

**August 11th, 1914**

> Annest of Annes,
> 
> It is so good to write your name, to read it. It’s as if a part of you stays with me, even though I sail rocking in the middle of the ocean and you have your firm feet planted on island soil. Though I have already begun to miss you terribly, (so much sometimes I worry I will truly stop breathing) it is hard to be lonely. When the overwhelming humidity of the steamer ship and the rank smell of urine and vomit begin to dizzy my senses, all I need do is close my eyes and picture you. You, darling mine, with your hair spun of auburn gold that I once tugged and those blue-grey eyes that look the same color as the clouds that hover o’er this ship. The other men seem to be frightened by the clouds, picturing only storm and gale, but when they make me think of you, they seem like blanket of protection.
> 
> Now I know why lovesick fellows write poetry as if it is the last thing they are capable of doing. You seem to be turning me into something of a poet. Crafting words like you do keeps you with me, by my side and in my heart.
> 
> I suppose you shall want all the nitty, gritty war details now - just to get them out of the way. I hope I do not disappoint you to inform you that not much has happened. On second thought, I’m sure that fact is a comfort to both you and I. The voyage on this ship has been crueler to some of the other lads who haven’t quite gotten their sea legs and stomachs yet. I didn’t have to be around the seasick men for long, because I soon found my way down to the boiler room where I shoveled coal and covered myself with dirt enough times to pretend that Bash was with me and we were just friends traveling the world together. These boys even let me sing.
> 
> Oh Anne, I do hope this war will be over soon. Being on this ship only reminds me what used to be and what can’t be until I finally come back home to you. When I picture what it is that I want most for my future, it isn’t shooting bullets at the faces of sons and brothers and fathers against whom I have no real ill feelings. I want to be with my family - you, my love - with a nice house with trees, a successful medical practice, and a shortage of tea from all the friends and family we’ll have passing through. The faces I’ll meet on the battlefield are those of people who will want the same things. How can I even think about killing them? What kind of doctor does that make me. I’ve not seen crossfire yet, but I imagine it’s as good as shooting at myself.
> 
>  
> 
> I had to leave for a moment, my love. Perhaps I spoke too soon when I said that not much has happened, for it seems I have my first story. I hope I’ll be able to spin this tale as well as you spin yours, but try to lower your expectations.
> 
> I’ve only been on this ship a few days, yet the men here already know of me. “The Blythe boy with the strong blythe constitution” and “the redhead’s lad.” A few Avonlea boys are here too, Charlie and Tillie Boulder’s older brother. I’m told more are enlisting soon, but they had to get their affairs in order. When some of the ship’s lads told Charlie that I had quite a beauty of a girl waiting for me to come home, he laughed in their face, but him and I both knew that he was dead gone on you after knowing you for a few weeks. He just was too proud to admit that I won your heart.
> 
> Anyways, Charlie had told some of the men that I had aspirations to be a doctor, had even trained a little bit under a real doctor in Charlottetown. I didn’t anticipate anyone being _too_ impressed, and no one was that counted. When word got up to my higher ups that I might be of some medical use on the field, they made it very clear to me that I should acquaint myself to the weight of a firearm on my shoulder than a syringe in my hand. I’m not sure which of the two I despise more.
> 
> But! - beautiful Anne - they changed their minds!
> 
> Tillie Boulder’s brother, Jack, fell against a stray bit of metal that gashed something nasty out of his leg. They took him to the infirmary right away, but he would only be seen my me - much to the dismay of the physician on duty. You can’t imagine the trembling in my hands as a half dozen certified doctors watched with caustic eyes at the nineteen-year-old playing MD for a day. But Jack wouldn’t budge, and his own tremors slowed substantially to have me by his side.
> 
> It felt so good to be needed. I no longer saw the men around me. It was just me and my patient. I thought of my training, about the consequence of handling the situation wrong, and even had a passing thought of you, Anne-girl, and how I wanted to make you proud.
> 
> I hope I did. Jack will heal just fine, I think. Proper precautions were taken against infection and all his nerves and arteries were checked, the wound properly bandaged. It was like Providence himself had guided my hand when dressing the injury, impressing every single doctor in the room. One insisted to make sure my handiwork had been satisfactory, and I passed with flying colors. Most importantly, he too said that Jack would heal and be ready for combat when our month at sea was over.
> 
> My superiors heard quite quickly about the affair, and (can you possibly believe it?) I won’t be in combat after all! I may find myself on the battlefield from time to time to collect those who are injured, but you are reading a correspondence from Canada’s newest physician’s assistant. I will be at Doctor James Simard’s right hand side, watching and helping.
> 
> I won’t have to kill anyone, after all. I can send these boys home in one piece back to their families.
> 
> Oh, Anne, I feel like I could fly. I feel the way I do when I stand at the bow of the ship and see the endless waters before me like an infinite number of possibilities and choices. I write to you there, salty breeze on my face as soft and pleasant as your kisses. If you were here, we’d sing and laugh together, just you and I and the sea and this joyous news that has lifted a weight on my chest that I didn’t know was there.
> 
> I finally feel like I can rest now, so I will conclude this letter here. I’m told letters will take about six weeks to cross the Atlantic, so be patient and try not to worry too terribly if you don’t hear from me. I’ve also enclosed a letter to Bash. Could you deliver it for me? Read it if you like, I know you probably feel the temptation. It’s just the ramblings of this lovesick man missing his home and the girl he treasures more than his own life.
> 
> I love you, my Anne. If many things change during this war, that will not.
> 
> Yours Always,
> 
> Private Gilbert Blythe


	3. Part III: September 20th, 1914

**September 20th, 1914**

> Dearest Private Gilbert Blythe,
> 
> (Oh, I do hate writing that, Gil. Not the dearest part, of course. Such addresses I could write over and over until my fingers turned numb and my heart happy with contentment. To see your name beside titles I have held specially saved for the person to whom I’d give the second half of my heart...Well, it makes me vibrate with joy, but it also hurts a little more than you’re not here to listen to me speak them to you. My dearest Gilbert, beloved darling, prince of my heart, my lifemate.)
> 
> Just listen to me ramble over such romantic ideals. I suppose I should continue on with this correspondence the way a person should, acknowledging all the things you told me about in your letter and updating you about my own boring life here in Avonlea. Canada seems so much less exciting when I think about what you must be doing. But you’d prefer a boring life to one fighting a war, right Gilbert?
> 
> I was so pleased to hear you were doing as well as could be expected. You should hear the chaos of my thoughts in the silence of the day, when I’m left alone to ponder what has truly become of you in the time it takes for these letters to cross the sea. Then I pull out your letter from that safe spot under my bed and cry a few beautiful tears as I remember that you are indeed alive and well.
> 
> First and foremost, though, I must say that poetry suits you. It’s like a fine suit that you have tailored to every line and contour on your body - impeccably sewn, beautifully worn. Just like you’d leave me breathless donning such rich clothing, so too do you make my heart skip a beat by comparing me to a storm who only seeks to protect you. Truer words have never been spoken, Gilbert Blythe. I hope you know that. Poetry aside, if you decided to wear well tailored suits when you return home, I will not argue in the slightest.
> 
> Was that perfectly scandalous to write? Please don’t tell your fellow soldiers that your “redhead” was making shameless advances to you in her letters. It’s simply that I am enjoying being able to shower praises on you to my heart’s content. It helps me to miss you less.
> 
> But I do miss you. Oh, Gil, it’s been over a month and all I pray for is that this war will be over soon. It’s unbearable to read about it in the papers and hear about the boys who have already died. The lists of names of those late loved ones that will be buried on English soil away from their islands can bring a room to silence.
> 
> Enough of that!
> 
> Bash and Mary are doing splendidly. Bash has made a name for himself helping out at farms where mothers are having difficulties maintaining them because the fathers have gone overseas. One cannot raise children, feed a family, run a household, tirelessly miss their husband, and be expected to run an entire farm on their own. Mary helps out, as well! Most of the time she just visits with Marilla and I. The three of us held fort in the kitchen, sending meals to widows, sonless mothers, and brotherless sisters. Sometimes I think that we’d all go over and fight the war right alongside you, if it meant that we could stay by your sides. I know I would.
> 
> But Mary and I chat and distract each other from how much we miss you. She asks me about when I knew for sure that I was in love with you (I cannot pinpoint an exact time, the same way you cannot pin down a river. It has always been there. Strong and good.) I ask her about when she believes you fell in love with me ( “Right from the very moment he laid those pretty blue eyes on you, Miss Shirley. It don’t take a genius to see that.”) I ask her what she enjoys about being married (“I don’t mean to shock you, Anne, but intimacy - both emotional and physical- is bliss. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve experienced in my life, equal to raising my son. I wish one day you can have that for yourself, to feel that you are queen of his heart. Am I queen of your heart, Gil?”)
> 
> Mary asks me about what I’m most excited to do with my future, to which I responded in the usual answer of, “I’d like to become a teacher just like my beloved Miss Stacy,” but Mary was not fooled. I suppose the smile did not reach my eyes or my voice did not have its regular conviction, but she could tell right away there was something plaguing me.
> 
> That thing was this war, Gilbert. This godforsaken, dirty, no-good, horrible horrible war. I hate it. I haven’t truly hated anything in my life, but I mean it this time.
> 
> The truth is, as I spoke it to Mary that day in the sunny light of the Green Gables kitchen, is that I don’t want to go to college to be a teacher. I don’t want to leave my home in the midst of everyone else leaving. Having you gone made me realize I need to stay around those who love me if I’m to keep my sanity - and that’s with Marilla and Matthew and Bash and Mary. We’re family, all missing our family who is valiantly doing his duty in England. Besides, if the war continues after I return from college - gracious God forbid - I don’t want to see my own pupils don their own grey uniforms. It would kill me to see their names on the lists in the papers.
> 
> Besides, there is so much to see here in Avonlea with the war waging! It has always been true that Avonlea was run by the strong women that inhabited it. This is more true than ever. Women have filled the shops, the factories further inland, the trains, the farms, everywhere there used to be a man. Society cannot simply cease functioning with all our young men overseas, I suppose. It keeps the ache of missing our loved ones from consuming us.
> 
> It’s a near thing, Gilbert. Missing you nearly consumes me all the time. Oh, how I love you, Gilbert Blythe. Oh, how I love you.
> 
> So while my gallant young lad will be away healing those who have been injured and harmed and wronged and shot (Dr. Blythe is a title I forgot to add in the beginning of my letter. I’m so happy for you, Gil! You’re going to do so much good at the right hand of Dr. Simard.) I will be Avonlea’s newest newspaper columnist. I’ve spoken  with Mr. Proctor yesterday - you remember, that old man who runs the paper? - and he’s agreed to giving me my own little space in the paper to talk about the trials and tribulations of the women during this period.
> 
> “Most of our readers are women now, I suppose,” he told me very bitterly. “I guess I haven’t any choice but to cater something to them.”
> 
> What an achievement! I haven’t decided what to name it. Do you have any suggestions? For once, I’m too excited to come up with a proper name. I’ll send you cutouts of the paper as soon as we begin printing them.
> 
> Oh, my own, I feel like I’m finally doing something more than just sitting around and waiting for the war to end.
> 
> I suppose if I do not end my letter now, I will continue to write until you appear in my doorway, arms open waiting to hold me. I’d write until I died, and my spirit had to keep writing after me. I’d write until I had exhausted all the paper in the entire world. I have so much I want to say to you - all things you already know, already have felt yourself.
> 
> So, I shall keep it simple.
> 
> You keep yourself safe, Gilbert Blythe, or I will never forgive you. Continue to craft your words, and sing your songs, and think of me when you feel lonely. Write me until your fingers are numb and your heart is soft. Remember the warmth of the hearth in your home and smiles of each person who has ever loved you, will love you, and loves you still. Walk proudly knowing your father walks beside, and your mother, and all the family before that. Walk gently knowing that I walk beside you, thinking of you always, protecting you always, loving you always.
> 
> Signed,
> 
> Your Anne-girl


	4. Part IV: October 7th, 1914

**October 7th, 1914**

> Anne,
> 
> ~~I wish I could say that I’m doing okay, but~~
> 
> ~~It was raining the day your letter came, and it really made me think that you were helping me, because even though I don’t like mud, the downpour washed away all the heat and the blood and drowned out the cries of~~
> 
> How are you, Anne? As well as can be, I’m sure, with things the way they are. I wish I could take the thundering worry in your head and bury it underground in all this rubble and ash around me. You’d never have to think about it again. It’ll be like that one day, we just have to be patient.
> 
> You’ll be happy to hear that I have indeed not told a soul about your mild flirtations with me in your last letter. It seems you have no awareness of your own power over me and the thrill that went through each of my nerves when you wrote of my “every line and contour.” I fear I am a shameful man, the way I yearn after you. Although, in my defense I am not the only man pining unabashedly for my lady love. The only thing that keeps these men - especially the the sick and wounded ones - going some days is the thought of their own pretty girls waiting for them at home. I know it is for me.
> 
> I suppose since no one else will be reading this letter to you, I can tell you an odd thing that happened to me. The residue of the event is still coated to the inside of my memory, and I find myself thinking about it frequently and at odd times.
> 
> A man came into our CCS - casualty clearing station, which is as gruesome as it sounds, Anne, I cannot lie. - much like the other injured soldiers come into our care, torn and dying. He was in my care, as the doctor had his hands full. The leg was mangled beyond repair and for his own safety, had to be removed. (I don’t mean to give you too many gruesome details, but it is an unavoidable state of being. A state of normalcy).
> 
> He kept rambling of his own Ann, and each time he said her name, I felt the intensity of his pain in my own leg. I could barely continue with the amputation. At first I asked him questions to keep us both grounded to the loud earth, and he responded as well as he could - “No, Officer Blythe, she doesn’t spell it with an E” and “I met her the day I found her laying flowers on my mother’s grave. What sort of girl lays flowers on a stranger’s grave?” Once the leg was gone, more and more words spilled from his mouth in feverish, agonized rambles. And Anne, I think the rambling was the only thing that kept him alive. “She’s the sun, doctor…” he said all slurred together so that I could barely understand it. “She’s the sun and she smiles so often and laughs so nice. Can you bring her in? I want to hear her laugh some more. Did you ever see hair so soft and pretty?”
> 
> It was too close to home. I had to step out of the tent for fresh air when he died, but I wrote to his Ann to tell her how loved she was. Now, I’m writing to mine. And you, Anne Shirley, are loved beyond your understanding.
> 
> With very little difficulty, I can paint the picture of you in my mind. The warmth your red hair give to your milk white skin. The sweet comfort in your sparkling eyes. The softness of your hands and cheeks. Sometimes I feel just like that man who died on my dirty, damp operating table - miserably calling out for Anne and letting the memory of her soothe him.
> 
> I cannot pretend, my love. War is terrifying. I am terrified, and I know telling you this will only worry you more, but there’s no way I can allow these walls of pretense to stand in between us. These walls built of sand bags and wooden supports, same as the trenches these men lay and die in. For days, weeks, these walls are shot at relentlessly with every patient I see. It gets easier with time, but I don’t expect I will ever truly acclimate to the smell of blood and fire. If you are to be my heart, I just want you to know what plagues it.
> 
> It would be so much easier if I were home, holding you dressed in soft, clean clothes beside a dell of fresh, clear water. I want to love you the way a man loves a woman, with every - as you say - line and contour of my heart and body until there is no space left between us and we are one. I want to cry into the fabric of your shirt, and let the sound of your heartbeat against my cheek comfort me, and ignore that any of this ever happened.
> 
> That is the honest truth, and I am not ashamed of it. I may give up many parts of myself to serve those suffering in this war, but I will not give up my pride and I will not give up my promise to come home to you. Speaking my peace has eased my heart some. Thank you, dearest, for listening.
> 
> I was hoping that writing to you would make it easier to sleep, but I find myself restless, wanting to lie in my own bed. This war zone around me seems to be closing in too quickly, and I can’t recall the feeling of being home.
> 
> Do you remember the time we almost kissed in Hester Gray’s old garden. Yes, darling, we like to pretend that day never existed, but I remember every single second of it as clearly as if it were happening right now. Even in the darkness of this humid room lit up by one standing lamp, I can remember the warmth of that spring sun on my skin and how I rolled up my sleeves for the first day of comfortable weather since that long winter. We were seventeen, and you were working on that story - Averil’s Atonement?
> 
> I found you down in the glen, standing in waist-high grass, reading aloud your words with passion that stemmed from the furthest corners within you. In your lilac dress with flowers caught in the strands of your hair and the holes in your lace, you looked like that goddess from greek mythology, Persephone. Spring grew up from your feet, crooning to hear your words - and I, for a shameful moment, wanted to pull you into my arms like Hades did and never let go. Yes, Anne, I loved you even then.
> 
> But I settled on calling out your name, and when you spun to see me, you weren’t embarrassed. You smiled and said, “Thank Providence you’re here, Gil. Come here. I need some help.”
> 
> Beckoned by the beauty standing before me, I stumbled forward on drunken fool’s footing (love drunk, mind you) and held your hand.
> 
> ‘What is it you’re working on,” I asked you. This time you did blush, and placed your written pages face down under a rock on the ground.
> 
> “A story,” you replied. “I’m having trouble with a scene. It’s just that most of the things that happen to my main character, I can act out and experience the thrill of myself. But, this particular scene needs another person and, for some reason, my imagination isn’t cooperating.”
> 
> I was more than happy to help, standing in as the personification of the handsome hero you had created in your head, following your instructions diligently. I remember every single word you said. “Put your hand here - oh, don’t smile at me like that, you’ve touched my waist before. Now, don’t panic, but I just want to see what it looks like if I run my fingers down the side of your face.” Your voice got softer and softer as you said it, and I wondered at the time if it was because you could feel my pulse beneath my skin. It was the first time I ever caught you staring at me the way I stare at you, breathless, distracted, blushing. “Yes, that should do quite nicely,” you murmured in a distracted tone, but you still ran the back of your fingers down the side of my face with such tenderness that I had to bring my other hand to your waist.
> 
> I thought for sure when you leaned in closer that the wait would finally be over and I would _finally_ be able to kiss you. But you stopped at the last second, pressed your forehead against mine, laughed a bit nervously. “Well, I believe that scene will have just the effect on my readers as I hoped.” Then you pulled away, flushed with roses and peonies, grabbed your papers, and ran back home to Green Gables. I watched you leave, and even though I had no medal or ribbon to prove it, I really felt like after all those years of waiting, I’d finally been victor. The only other time that surpassed that moment for me in happiness - with its own lingering hints of sadness, I suppose - was on that railway platform when you finally told me you loved me.
> 
> Alright, darling, I think I have finally found the peace I need to sleep. Thank you for listening to the ramblings of this heartsick man. You have helped more than you know, even with just the promise that this letter will touch your hands and be read by you. My eyes are heavy, and I believe I may finally get some rest.
> 
> Always remember that there is a soldier in the hills of France who loves you more than you know, and who prays daily for his return home to you. Take care of yourself, Anne-girl. I’ll be home soon.
> 
> Your,
> 
> Gilbert


	5. Part V: A Long Fortnight and a Dozen More

  **December 9th, 1914**  

> Dear Gil,
> 
> Gilbert Blythe, if you withhold anything that your heart yearns to speak for my own sake, then I will gladly hop on a steamer to break another slate over your head. It is my desire that you write your heart’s peace in your letters - from the shameless flirtations that make my heart fall right into my abdomen with delicious warmth to the bloody, gorey stories that occupy your daily life. When you write to me, I do not want you to feel like a shameful man. I want to be Gilbert Blythe, the man at your very root, the kindred soul that I have come to love with every ounce of my being.
> 
> In return, I shall write to you as your Anne, I will pull out the rawness of my being from the corners of my soul and share those humble thoughts with you. I want you to know my soul intimately, Gilbert, as I have grown to learn yours.
> 
> Although, I wouldn’t mind knowing your physical being intimately, either. Oh, do come home safe, Gil.
> 
> Your story of your patient - the one with his Ann back home - struck me in my heart as true as it struck yours. If another Gilbert waltzed into Avonlea and started up his own medical practice, I’m certain I wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye. It would ache too much, to have my own Dr. Blythe overseas, and an insufficient substitute standing in his place.
> 
> But no one will have to write your Anne home to tell her that her soldier has fallen. You’ll be coming home, Gilbert Blythe. That you may tie to.
> 
> Oh, darling, I know you don’t want to talk of the war. But - should you need to, I will strong enough to listen. There isn’t a single storm I can’t weather for you, Gil. So when you’re scared, tell me. When you’re relieved, tell me. When you ache for home so badly you think it may be the death of you, tell me. And I will listen. I will listen to every single word you write and speak and hold them close to my heart so that you know you are safe and loved.
> 
>  
> 
> As for your story, Gilbert, I remember it just as clearly as you do. Oh, what I would do to be back in that garden with you again. Your hands on my waist, my fingers running down your cheeks to memorize that blessed contrast of soft skin and the earnest beginnings of a beard. And you’d kiss the cleft above my breasts so I could lean my face into your hair and relish your breath under my chin like a summer breeze. We’d sit against the willow trees there, and speak the way lovers do of our past and future, our happiness and hopes.
> 
> And when the time comes, Gil, I’ll be able to welcome you to our home beside the dell of fresh water. We’ll have stocked shelves, clean linen, and joyous times in front of our hearth. I’ll hold you against my heart and sing you your favorite songs. We’ll make love the way lifemates do and spark electricity with our touch. I want that for us, Gilbert.
> 
> But I digress! Hmm...I suppose I have procrastinated in telling you about what I am up to long enough. It is with a joyful heart that I can say my newspaper column  is an utter success. I have named the column No Man’s Land - a phrase you taught me in one of your letters last month, so I have you to thank! Mr. Proctor was happily surprised to find that the women of Avonlea clutched to their own stories, and I _only_ publish the stories by women or revolving around women.
> 
> Mrs. Lynde was my first account. I interviewed her on a bright summer day to ask her about how she was managing to sew so many quilts to send overseas. It turns out, she has the help of the Presbyterian ladies and they often get together on Tuesdays and Thursdays to pray and quilt. After I published the story in my column, fabric and thread donations increased exponentially, and Mrs. Lynde even told me that the number of sewing circle attendants nearly doubled.
> 
> Since then, I write the stories of all the women who will speak to me. Every week there is something new. Sometimes I even speak to the same women twice. The women share everything that might be useful - from farming tips they learned from their husbands, to rationing methods that feed our men overseas and the children at the table. I even spoke with a woman who has begun to take care of orphaned children.
> 
> Oh, Gil, I’m so glad that Matthew and Marilla are too old to go off and fight. If all of you were overseas, what would I do?
> 
> At any rate - I say swiping tears viciously from my cheeks to make sure they don’t splotch my words - I am feeling...strange. Of course, I am thrilled to have finally found a good use for my writing that seems to be making a difference in the community, but there is lingering bitterness too. Why did Mr. Harrison’s son get to come home and not you? Why does it only take Billy’s letters four weeks to make it to Jane and Prissy, but it takes yours six to eight? Why is every able bodied man gone, leaving us women behind to mourn over what has or hasn’t happened yet? Why are we fighting this war at all? Who benefits?
> 
> Enough. Enough questions. You don’t have the answers, no one does. There is no use in asking.
> 
> But how about promises? I promise that the first thing I’ll do when I see you next, Gilbert Blythe, is hold you so tightly that you’ll think your lungs have been squeezed from your body. I’ll kiss every inch of your face and cry tears of happiness. I’ll not let you out of my sight for at least a month. We’ll get married as soon as humanly possible and we’ll start our new lives of happiness. The universe will be kinder to us because it has taken so much already. Those are my promises to you, my love.
> 
> Please write back as soon as you can. I’ve enclosed more postage stamps and some dried flower buds from Bash’s garden. I hope they still smell like home.
> 
>  
> 
> Love Always,
> 
> Anne
> 
> (PS: I hope you won’t think me terribly vain for also having enclosed a picture of myself. Carry it with you?)

 

 

 

**July 19th, 1915**

> Gilbert.
> 
> Are you okay? Where are you?
> 
> Today my letters were returned to me. The kind woman at the post office handed them to me all tied together in neat ribbon - every single letter I’ve written since the last successful delivery in December - and I’ve written you every day. The stack of untorn envelopes is an eyesore on the desk beside me, but I cannot bring myself to remove them from my sight. I fear if they leave my side, they’ll vanish into thin air, just like you seemed to.
> 
> I have written every person I could think to write. The doctors you work with, the men in your division, the embassy, even the Prime Minister of England. Apparently they all have more pressing matters than the whereabouts of a humble Canadian lad who hasn’t been able to send or receive letters.
> 
> One man did respond. He said you were probably dead and I should resign myself to settling your affairs at home.
> 
> Surely I would know in the depths of my heart if you were dead, wouldn’t I? I would feel it. I would feel you beside me, even as I write this now. Your spirit would be standing at my shoulder, lips pressed against the side of my head. You’d wipe away my tears with invisible hands and whisper words of love on the wind so I might hear them through the draft in my room.
> 
> But there is nothing. Nothing save dry air and emptiness in this gable room. It  is just me and the shadows of the trees.
> 
> That must mean you’re alive. It has to mean you’re alive.
> 
> Just write back. Please? Tell me you’re alive so I may finally remove the weight from my chest and the doubt in my stomach.
> 
>  
> 
> I love you,
> 
> Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.

 

 

**September 1st, 1915**

> Gilbert, where are you?
> 
> You've been declared missing in action. Where do I address my letters? I haven’t left Green Gables. I promise I won’t leave or even move until I hear what has happened to you. You’ll know where to find me when you come home. The same place I am now, the same place I’ve always been. The same girl who loved you that day in Hester Gray’s garden, the same girl who loves you now. 
> 
> But if you don’t return, dear heart, I fear I shall die along with you.  
>    
>  Anne.


	6. Part VI: December 24th, 1915

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was hard to find everyone's individual voice in this chapter, for reasons I think you'll understand upon reading it. The next chapter will be last of this story - the beloved climax I've had in my heart since I published this story several months ago. I hope the ending will be a satisfying finish to this little work. Until then, please enjoy this penultimate chapter.

**December 24th, 1915**

_~~Dear Mrs. Blyt~~ _

_Dear Miss Shirley,_

_I know it must be strange to be receiving a letter from ~~your husband’s~~ Officer Blythe’s superior, but that lad has done an awful amount of good in the ranks and...Well, I suppose I thought I owed it to him. _

_Ma’am, you’ll have to forgive me. I don’t know what happened to him. This note was found on the floor underneath one of the sick beds in a medical tent nearly twenty miles away from where I’m currently stationed. The poor lad addressed it to you, but sent it here. From the few brief sentences I’ve read, I’d have to guess that he was in a fever when he wrote this - delusional and raving in pain and heartache. I wish I could have delivered you a letter with corners that weren’t stained with blood._

_It is my sincerest hope that Officer Blythe is okay, wherever he is. But in case he isn’t, I wanted you to have this last letter._

_Signed,_

_James Simard M.D._

 

> Sweet love of mine, I’m home. We have chosen the perfect little house. I’m going to put the mare in and then I’ll be in shortly. Pour me some tea, will you? My head aches some horrible. I just keep hearing this horrible cannonade in my head, and I can’t figure out where it’s come from but hiding in the trenches doesn’t make it any
> 
> Yours is a beautiful face to come home to, Anne. All pale in the moonlight like a goddess high on Mount Olympus. You look breathtaking standing in the window frame, gazing down at me in my wagon. Are you made of ivory? Do all doctors get greeted with such a sight. I wonder, is our bedroom cold when I'm not home? Have the housekeeper keep the hearth flame going. I'll have Bash drop off more firewood so you're not cold this weekend. There's a woman expecting twins and I anticipate I'll be at her side until they're safe and born. I don't quite remember who she is, or where she lives, but…she's due any day now! I think her house is down in that lane of trenches, but its so unclean down there. I wonder if anyone went and got Johnny Trumbel’s body yet, or if I need to send out Nurse Josie to
> 
> That's alright, sweetheart, I can hang my own coat up. You're an attentive partner to me. Do I serve you as dutifully, sweet one? I try to. I try and try and try and
> 
> You've set the table so nicely, darling. Marilla would be so proud. Let me cook tomorrow so you can sit on the porch of this house of dreams and watch the shortest sunset of the year all snug
> 
> Oh, my leg does hurt something terrible.
> 
> Have you gone ahead and invited Mrs. Rachel Lynde over for tea yet? Yes yes we had her over for tea when we first moved, that’s right. Oh, now my leg is bleeding something terrible. Must’ve happened on the ride home after that no good Hun came after me with his rifle and it’s terrible manners to shoot at a doctor! - wait, that isn’t right. I was coming right from Mr. Sloane’s house to see after his gallbladder. Poor man suffers terribly. Just terribly. Oh Anne, my leg does hurt. Get some towels to help me with the bleeding.
> 
> Look at this! All our children in bed. If Doctor Simard wasn’t so blessed busy, I’d have him examine at this leg for me. He’d check for shrapnel and help prevent infection, and I’d do it, but I keep forgetting and that’s why Johnny Trumbell died and
> 
> I want to name the next child Anne, after you. And if it’s a young lad, Anthony. Or Anton. No, I don’t suppose I like the name Anton quite the same way I like Anne. Andrew is nice. And Anderson. But I do want another little girl, so if it is a girl, just name her Anne. We can call her Nan. Oh, darling, she’ll be just as beautiful as you. How will this weak, poor heart take it?
> 
> This old leg is no good anymore. Oh - I suppose that’s okay because it’s gone anyways. I’m a little warm and I can’t walk to get myself a glass of water downstairs. Could you fetch it for me? I know you married a whole man and you don’t desire this broken, legless, no good shell of a doctor. I’ll understand if you want to leave me. It’ll kill me, but I’ll understand. If it weren’t for that gun and the gas tank and
> 
> You’ve got a good imagination, Anne. Do you suppose you could imagine I’m all in one piece?
> 
> I’m a wfully tired,     dar   li ng. I can’t keep  these old ey e s open. I l ov e   you.
> 
> G oo dnight.

*

Anne placed the letter on her lap, and ran her fingers over the torn edges that were smeared with blood and soot. She hadn’t been sure what to expect when they received the letter in the mail. She feared the worst when it first slipped into her fingers, noting the official return address of a soldier who wasn’t Gilbert. What other business could a man have to send her letters if it wasn’t that Gilbert had…

She sucked in a deep breath and frantically glanced down at the letter again. His fine script was there, albeit slanted and smudged, but his nonetheless. The lack of coherence and the hanging sentences without proper endings were both a blessing a curse.

He had been alive. Fairly recently too! But for how long?  

“Anne, what is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” Marilla asked, coming into the parlor, drying her hands on a towel.

“Well - I, uh…” This had been happening more frequently in recent days. With Anne’s head too gray with worry and inevitable grief, there was no room for big words or even full sentences. She swallowed, and tried again. “I received a letter.”

“I thought we agreed that Matthew would fetch the mail,” Marilla said in her stern tone, an underlying worry dripping in. The color had dropped from her face into her feet.

“Yes, that was the agreement,” Anne murmured. “I just...had a feeling I should get it today.”

Silence fell between them. Marilla wasn’t sure how she should ask. Anne had barely any words left in her to explain.

“Have you found the answers you were looking for?” Marilla asked finally. Anne’s mind screamed a dozen new questions with every second. To which one, then? - she wondered. But then she caught sight of the fear on Marilla’s face, and dread settled into her stomach. There was only one thing they feared over with so much dedication - one person.

“I don’t know,” Anne replied, handing the letter to Marilla. “I don’t know if he’s dead, or if he’s alive, or if he’s hurt. I don’t know how much of that letter was true. He says he’s missing a leg.”

Marilla read, handed the folded letter to Anne, then turned to the window.

“Blessed stars,” she cursed, or prayed, or wept. “More than a year has passed since you’ve heard from him and now this. You’ve taken on more than a single girl should endure, Anne. It’s turned you into a woman. If I could shoulder this burden for you, I would in a heartbeat.”

But Anne would not turn Marilla, who had already survived a lifetime’s worth of pain, into the Atlas of her own heartache. Perhaps it was a right of passage, to lose someone so dear to you that the absence of them doesn’t leave a hole in your heart - but rather consumes it like a hurricane or a black hole. Tosses it about in your chest until you have built up the resilience to walk through town and not feel the eyes on you and hear the whispers of “No one has heard from Gilbert Blythe in a year, that poor Anne.”

That poor Anne, indeed. That poor Anne who left her newspaper column to another aspiring writer, who could fortify herself against the constant letters of tragedy and grief. But Anne was losing strength. She wouldn’t surrender it all to her work, not when she had to stay strong until she heard about Gilbert.  

“It’s in your hands now, Margaret,” Anne had told her protege. “Be kind and empathetic. Tell the stories the way they are. Write the truth.”

Margaret had been quiet, blonde hairs poking out of her clumsy bun, until finally she said, “Can I interview you someday, Miss Shirley?”

“I sincerely hope you won’t have to,” Anne responded, knowing that there was only one way she would become a subject of her own creation. “But… If I hear that he… if… If there is something to tell, then I will tell it to you.”

The newspaper was always among the first to know of a fallen Avonlea soldier, second only to the immediate family. It printed the names in dark, morbid lists that never did anyone but bring sorrow. If she had stumbled upon Gilbert’s name by accident… If it came to that, she wanted to hear it from Sebastian and Mary first.

But it wouldn’t come to that. It wouldn’t. It wouldn-

So she left. Removed the possibility.

Anne walked out of her tiny newspaper office with a box of her things, and as she passed through the door, the inky odor of the firm melted into clean air. She inhaled heavy and deep, allowing the freezing winter air to soothe the ache in her heart and muscles. As she met Jerry, who was to drive her home, she swore to herself one thing.

She would never read the newspaper again. Not until Gilbert Blythe was home safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat with me on tumblr - @royalcordelia ♥


	7. Part VII: Lilies of the Valley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience with my hiatus!! I wanted to wait until I could give this final chapter justice. I hope this conclusion was the satisfying ending you all were wishing for. I haven't edited terribly heavily for mistakes, so please forgive me in that regard.

Anne may as well have been in no man’s land as the next months passed, with bullets whizzing past her ears and explosions bursting at either side of her feet. She heard it the loudest in the silence of her own room, with the chill Avonlea breeze sneaking in through her lacy window panes accompanied by the smell of autumn’s arrival. What an odd feeling it was, she pondered early one morning, to stand in the middle of a raging war in the isolation of her own bedroom. 

She still hadn’t heard from Gilbert. It was a fact that seemed to play in her mind like a record player stuck on repeat, and each time she thought of it, a sharp ache stabbed at her chest. Was this how it was to be? A life spent teetering on the edge of suspense, the threat of tipping over into devastation realer than ever? She still wrote to Gilbert, but only when the loneliness of his absence grew too heavy to bear without some sort of release. She wrote to soldiers who knew him.  _ He saved my life, Ma’am,  _ wrote one soldier.  _ It was months ago, but as soon as I could, I sat down to write this letter to you.  I barely knew how to address it, only that Blythe would speak endlessly of his Anne-with-an-E in Avonlea, PEI.  You’ll tell him how obliged to him I am, won’t you miss?  _ Such correspondence came at least once a week, from dozens of men, nurses, and doctors, but never from Gilbert. 

All she could do was sit at her window at let the kind autumnal whispers of home lull her to sleep at night until the morning would come with its merciful distractions. 

*

Avonlea smelled like sweet grass that Sunday afternoon when Anne opened the door to Bash and Mary. The fragrance flooded into Green Gables the way incense descends upon a church. Little Seb trailed in behind his parents, plucky fingers pinching the skirts of his mother’s dress. Just the sight of them was a balm on Anne’s soul, and she knelt down to take the young lad into an embrace. In that moment, their little makeshift family was complete.

“I hope you do not mind that we have come for our weekly visit a day earlier than usual,” Bash said carefully as Anne peppered kisses onto Little Sebbie. 

“You know our home is always open to your family,” Marilla said, appearing in the hallway. 

“Absolutely! We’re delighted to have you!” said Anne, scooping Seb into her arms and swinging him around. The lad’s brown curls tumbled into his eyes as laughter emitted from the tips of his toes. Was there ever a sweeter nephew? And those plump cheeks! Certainly Mary was keeping him well fed. “Sebbie, why don’t you and I go jump in the hay bales? Jerry left us some just yesterday!” 

Marilla began to protest, but Mary interrupted in an odd voice before she could get more than a word out.

“Actually, I think that’s exactly what that poor boy needs. Hasn’t gotten out of the house with all that rain we’ve been having. We’ll be right here when you get back. Take your time.” 

Sebbie intertwined his tiny fingers with Anne’s and tugged their arms back and forth like a tree swing. Heartstrings thoroughly tugged - he must’ve learned his puppy dog eyes from Gilbert - Anne looked toward Bash for approval. He hesitated for a moment, the expression on his face as solid as poured cement. Then, he bent his head and pressed a kiss to Sebbie’s head, then Anne’s, lingering on the golden hues in her hair. 

“Make sure you’re eating enough, Queen Anne,” he said, pulling an apple from the basket in his hand and handing it to her. “Go enjoy yourselves.”  

“You’re sweet, Bash,” she replied, tucking the apple into her apron pocket. “Come on, Sebbie.” 

The Lacroixs followed Marilla into the kitchen, but Anne could still feel Bash’s eyes on her as she shuffled Sebbie toward the door. Sebastian Jr. was an explosion of intelligence and chatter for a young lad of his age. Raised under the careful thumb of Mary and Sebastian, he was a well-behaved schoolboy, if not a bit eager. Influences from Anne and Gilbert had impressed the boy with a strong vocabulary, one that left his peers in his dust. Anne wondered if perhaps she’d finally met her match in a conversation partner. 

“Guess what, Anne!? I found a butterfly on the steps last night. Momma let me put it in a jar and leave it next to my bed for the night, but I had to let it go early the next morning. Good thing, too, cause it almost died. And Tillie Boulter pushed me into the brook on Wednesday, but I only hurt my ankle a little. Too bad Gilbert isn’t here to look at it for me. Say Anne, did you know Gilbert was killed in France yesterday? That’s what the telegram said this morning.” 

The oxygen disappeared from the room in an instant. The entire house went silent, each pair of nervous eyes landing on Anne. 

Every one of her nerves was numb. There was a ringing in her ears that roared louder than Marilla’s gentle call of her name. Anne released Little Seb’s hand and took a few steps away, as if she might find a patch of oxygen in her shock. It was if every faculty in her brain had stopped working, making her brain a blank slate, her legs shaky. She was defenseless against the only sensation that seemed to blooming in her chest like one of the German bombs - agony, sharp and throbbing. It blurred her vision and stung behind her eyes where she tried to make sense of what Little Seb had said. 

“Oh, Anne…” Marilla murmured, coming to the girl’s side. Anne shuffled back a few steps, cognizant enough to look up at Mary and Bash. They were waiting at the edge of the kitchen, looking at her the way people look at injured deer they stumble across but don’t know how to help. In the corner of her awareness, she noted the tears that had begun spilling down Mary’s flowery cheeks and the grief in Bash’s stern expression.

They knew. Of course they knew. It was why they visited early, Anne realized. 

“I…” Anne stammered, unable to find the words that she needed. “Is...it true?”

Marilla took it upon herself. She had raised the girl, after all. It was only right to speak this truth to her now. 

“It is. Gilbert died in combat earlier yesterday. Oh Anne, I am so,  _ so  _ sorry, dear heart. Sebastian probably doesn’t know any better and...well, we didn’t mean for you to find out this way.” 

Anne’s arms wrapped at her elbows. It was getting harder to breathe, her inhales coming in shallow gasps. 

“But his commanding general wrote that it was quick and painless,” Bash interjected. “He didn’t suffer at all. When they found him, he was peaceful.” 

The words were meant to soothe her, but all they did was paint a horrible picture in every space of her mind. It was all she could see, her dear love laying in the mud of France, life stripped from him with no comfort or chance for last words. He would be buried there, she imagined, amongst the French flowers far from their Canadian shoreline. 

She would never see him again. He was gone.

It was then that her legs collapsed from underneath her. Her hand caught the edge of the bannister seconds before her knees could crash against the unforgiving floor. The taste of salt fell on her trembling lips, and before the grief could cloud over her completely, she reached out a hand toward Marilla. The gray woman fell by her side in an instant, just in time to catch the girl who had finally lost all her strength. 

Anne knelt beside her mother figure, face buried in her skirts, and wept with the bitterest of broken hearts. Her soul was wracked, her bones weary, her strength drained away like an open wound on the fields of France. 

*

Anne slept through her pain in the days that came, her tired body welcoming respite from its heartache. Bash and Diana visited daily, sometimes Ruby, even Cole paid a call on a dreary afternoon - but Anne would see nobody but the Cuthberts and the doctor, who was charged with making sure the girl wasn’t withering away. 

“I’m only a physical doctor,” the man had said. Anne squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to picture Gilbert as the successful country doctor he always wanted to be. “But I know some about matters of the heart. Let yourself grieve, Miss Shirley. You only hurt yourself by holding it in.” 

She said nothing in reply, but crept out of bed when she thought no one was watching, and found herself at the seaspray cliffs of Prince Edward Island. She gazed out, cheeks misty with salty brine and tears, and wondered what the sunsets looked like in Europe. It was the type of magenta sight that the romantics wrote sonnets about, the sort of natural beauty that usually sent an artistic thrill through Anne. It was the same sunset that she could recall sitting under with Gilbert time and time again, aching to lean across the tall grass and kiss his gentle smile. 

A whimper escaped her lips, untraceable in the sound of the ocean’s waves. There was so much to say, so much left unsaid, and she wanted to be heard. For once, she wanted the Almighty to listen to her prayers and frustrations and pain. 

And so, on the cliffs of Prince Edward Island, Anne Shirley released a broken scream of grief and anger. She hoped that it raged against the oceans, parted the seas and shot like lightning through the gray autumn skies. She roared and sobbed and howled and wept, until there was nothing left in her. At least some of the pain in her heart was replaced by a rawness in her throat, and still she felt lighter. 

Then she walked back home, climbed up the stairs to her gable room, and thought for the first time in a week that she might be able to stomach some broth. 

*

Weeks later, Anne was on her feet again. The smile had gone from her eyes - possibly gone for good - but she found it possible to walk down Lover’s Lane without shaking and eat her meals without expelling them. Strangely enough, she found comfort in the company of the Lacroixs, whose existence to her was nothing but a reminder of what she had lost. They had lost the same thing, though, and it brought them together. They came together for meals with more frequency than ever before, always at Green Gables. 

“I just don’t think I can go to that house yet, Marilla,” Anne explained quietly. She did not have to explain twice. 

But a day or two later, something in her changed. She found herself desperate for things that held pieces of him and the life that he lived. She’d read his letters over and over and over, read the books that he loaned her, walked the roads they walked together, but none of it seemed enough. 

“I think I’d like to go bring Bash and Mary this pie,” Anne decided one day, hints of her usual determination showing signs of revitalization. “They’ve brought over so much food in the last weeks that I think I’m overdue in returning the favor.” 

“Are you sure, Anne?” Matthew said cautiously from the kitchen table, folding his newspaper. 

“Mostly,” she replied, though her tone did not match her sentiment. “I can’t keep going on avoiding the things that hurt too much.” 

“But you don’t have to confront things you’re ill equipped to handle,” Marilla cut in. “I’ll have Jerry bring the pie over and you can-” 

“No, I’m quite well enough to bring it over myself. I appreciate your concern, both of you,” Anne said resolutely. 

And that was that, for Matthew and Marilla had learned some time ago that when it came to challenging a determined Anne, one must choose their battles wisely. This battle they waved their white flags to, and watched with worried frowns as Anne headed down a forest road she could traverse blind.

 

The Blythe house looked the same as ever it did, with its silver colored bricks and humble porch. Memories of time spent here threatened to burst in uninvited thoughts, but Anne bit the inside of her cheek and pushed them aside. She knocked, picturing Bash opening the door with his usual greeting of, “Well, if it isn’t Queen Anne!” But Bash didn’t appear, nor did Mary or even little Seb. 

“I suppose I could just leave the pie on the counter. Maybe I’ll add a nice little note,” Anne pondered. Her own pretend of the old regularity of her personality had nearly fooled her. But the bluff fell to pieces the second she opened the door. 

God, the house still smelled like him - or maybe he smelled like the house - but it was enough to stagger her. She gripped the edge of the doorframe, took a breath, then made her way through the familiar rooms. 

“Sebastian? Mary?” she called out, but no one answered. With the same urgency that comes with rushing an injection to get it over with, Anne scurried into the empty kitchen, dropped the pie on the counter like it burned. She stumbled out of the back door and gasped for the clean air that greeted her. “Oh, maybe Marilla and Matthew were right,” she scolded herself as she swiped a few stray tears from her freckled cheeks. 

Her gaze fell on the Blythe garden, the very one that Gilbert had planted himself in memory of his parents. Strange, she thought, that even though she could easily picture him kneeling in the soil, she couldn’t feel his presence with her in the shadows under the trees. She couldn’t feel him around at all, but how could he have just abandoned her? It wasn’t possible. 

Anne knelt beside the flowers, fighting back another one of her crying spells. She’d wept so much in the past days that surely she had to be running out of tears by now. 

She heard the door behind her open, followed by two quiet steps.

“I’m fine, Bash,” she stammered, running her palms against her cheeks. “I’ll - I’ll come inside in just a second. I just need a moment to...Oh, I don’t mean to cry, but it seems I can never stop... I’m fine, just...it’s...”

“ _ Anne _ .” 

All at once, the world of broken pieces and shattered dreams fell back into place, returning to their wholeness. Had she heard correctly? Eyes wide open, Anne turned with painstaking slowness toward the voice she never thought she’d hear again. The sight was ambrosia to her marred heart. 

“Gilbert?” And then, in a reverent prayer - “ _ Gilbert.”  _

There he was - much like he’d left her. Chestnut curls, khaki regimentals, and hazel eyes that never tired of looking upon her in their adoration. Some things were different, of course. He  _ had  _ lost his leg, after all, and the experience of it had aged him, beginning with the empty air under his knees. Dark hairs lined his chin, only partially groomed, and his shoulders were straighter around the edges. 

She barely recognized him, but there was no denying it - Gilbert Blythe was  _ alive.  _ He was alive and home and gaping at her like a man who had just stared into the face the universe. 

Anne rose to her feet, the skirts of her pale turquoise dress brushing against the flowers. The shock on his face melted into sunshine warmth, and he began to hobble toward her with unsteady movements. Anne was quick to shorten the distance between them, opening her arms to catch Gilbert when he fell into her. The crutch he had tucked under his arm fell down at his side, forgotten, as he wrapped his arms around her frame. Brilliant huffs of warm breath sent chills down Anne’s neck where he had buried his face in joyous laughter. 

“Oh Anne, how I’ve missed you!” he whimpered. “How I’ve missed you so.” 

Anne felt as though she might burst into flames with happiness and love. She stroked his soft hair, kissed his temple, and swayed in her happiness. 

“I thought you were dead, Gilbert!” she cried. “They told me you were dead!” 

This only caused him to hold on tighter, and Anne wasn’t sure if it was his embrace or her own joy that was keeping the air from her lungs. But then he pulled back, and took her face in his hands, his eyes lingering for a few heartbeats. 

“I know. I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like for you. But it was all a misunderstanding, sweetheart. An enemy soldier stole my uniform and my identification.  _ He  _ was the one they found dead.” He pressed his lips to her brow. “I’m home for you, Anne. I won’t leave you again, I swear it.” 

Anne could contain herself no longer. She pushed herself onto her toes and kissed Gilbert with the love and passion and pain she’d had within her in his absence. The taste of him was sweet, like fragrant forest breezes and wild clover. There was traces of the sunset too, with all its warmth and beauty. He kissed her back with as much reverence as a poet scribing phrases of happiness eternal. Their lips kissed and danced as though they hadn’t had years of separation and Anne felt the grief of the last weeks washing away.

“Thank God,” Anne whimpered as she pulled away, memorizing the shimmers in his eyes. “Oh, I feel like I’ve had three lifetimes worth of joy all at once. Why didn’t you send word? The last letter I received from you, I thought...” 

“What last letter?” Gilbert queried, brushing a stray hair away from her face.

“Doctor Simard sent it just in time for Christmas Eve last year. You’d written it in the hospital. It must’ve been right after…” She looked down at his injured leg. “The way you wrote, well, I could only assume you were dying.” 

“None of that for now, Anne,” Gilbert scolded. “I’ll tell you the full story later. For now, let this weary soldier hold his lady love as I’ve longed to since I boarded the train in Charlottetown.” 

And she did for a few moments, tucking her head into the nook under his chin so that she might breathe the scent of him. 

“Have you gotten taller?” she whispered.

“A bit. I learned when my pants had to be adjusted” he admitted. “And you, Anne. Why you’re every bit as beautiful as when I left, and more. When did you start wearing your hair like this?” 

“When I turned twenty. Marilla insisted.” 

“Well, the sight of you nearly swept the breath from me for good.” 

“And the sight of  _ you  _ has healed every aching corner of me. I truly thought the loss of you would end me. I know you’re here now, and do you know Gilbert? I would marry you right this instant if I could.” Gilbert opened his mouth to say more, but a realization snuck up on Anne faster than he could speak.  “Why not, then?” 

Gilbert’s lips trembled as he watched Anne take her comforting hands in his and kneel down at his feet. 

“Gilbert Blythe, if being separated from you has taught me anything, it’s that there is no one I want to share life with more than you. If you’ll have me, I’ll stay by your side until the very end, loving you and supporting you with everything that I have. I won’t waste the opportunity. Marry me right now, Gilbert, and I'll willingly accept the sorrow of life with its joy. Marry me in this humble grove amongst the falling leaves and the Avonlea sunset, with your garden as our chapel and no one but the Almighty here to officiate.”

“It’s hardly conventional,” Gilbert said breathlessly, letting Anne’s strong grasp bear the struggle of his standing. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” 

“Yes,” she replied in her Anne-like resolution. 

That was all Gilbert needed to hear. He lowered himself down to the ground, ignoring the pain in his leg, and met Anne at their earthly altar. With hands still held tightly in hers, Gilbert pressed his forehead against hers and took a deep breath. 

“I, Gilbert Blythe, take-” 

“No no no, let me go first!” Anne interrupted sweetly, rubbing her thumbs over his knuckles. Gilbert nodded with a chuckle, and watched as Anne breathed in her courage, sunlight warming the tones of her cheeks and lips. The sight of her was more lovely than his heart was prepared to take, but he focused his attention on Anne and let each of his nerves feel their joy. 

“I, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, take you, Gilbert John Blythe, matched to my intellect, proponent of my happiness, friend of my heart, to be my life mate. I swear to you, the Almighty Providence as our witness, that I love you now and will always love you. Let us dance together as equal partners through the years, through sickness and health, for richer, for poorer, until the infinite eternity.”

Gilbert let out a breathless chuckle, and when Anne lowered her gaze to look upon his face, she found that he was hiding streaked cheeks. Tears glistened on the tips of his lashes the way rain balances on leaves and petals. She brought her thumb up to caress the soft skin and brush away the moisture. 

“I don’t know if I can remember all that,” he admitted quietly, nuzzling his head against hers. “Help me out?”

Anne laughed through her own tears, and nodded. Gilbert took a steadying breath, acutely aware of the rustling of leaves and the harmonizing birdsong above them. He’d dreamt for years about what it would be like to marry Anne - who he’d like to have there, what time of day, what she’d be dressed in. But this was perfect. Anne in her morning sky dress with chiffon sleeves and a narrow waist. The spirit of Prince Edward Island as their sole guest. Her beautiful words as their vows.

“I, Gilbert Blythe, take you, Anne Shirley Cuthbert…” 

“Matched to my intellect,” she prodded. 

“Matched to my intellect, proponent of my happiness, friends of my heart, to be my lifemate. I will love you today and tomorrow as much as I did the first day we met. I promise to take care of you and to stay by your side as your husband, for richer, for poorer…” Gilbert swallowed another lump in his throat and Anne tightened her clasp. “Until the infinite eternity.”

Anne was still for a moment, then reached down beside them and plucked some lily-of-the-valley. Gilbert watched, mesmerized, as she broke off a few short segments and twisted them with a delicate touch into rings. Then, she took Gilbert’s hand and slid the larger of the rings onto his left ring finger. 

“With this ring, I thee wed,” she said, not feeling the least bit dramatic or silly. She handed him the other and held out her hand. The braided ring was fragile in his touch, but he brought her knuckles to his lips and slid the ring into place. 

“With this ring, I thee wed,” he repeated back, heart heavy with delight. 

Anne didn’t wait a second longer. She took her husband’s face in her loving hands and kissed him with tender adoration. Gilbert was swift to kiss his bride with the fire of passion that had kept him alive in his fever. He hoped that she could taste each of his dreams on the tip of his tongue - their house of dreams, their children, pieces of their future that suddenly had hope of falling back into place. 

*

True to the promises in his letters, Gilbert took Anne into his room and loved her the way a man loves his wife. He reacquainted herself with her soul, introduced himself to her body, and delighted in worshiping every inch of porcelain flesh that careened to his touch. It was clumsy and self conscious in the beginning, but their fears gave way to the sight of one another bare in the orange of the island sunset. They laughed, wept, and cried out in the bliss they found together. As Gilbert loved her, Anne held onto his shoulders and wondered if the years of separation had come to mean something after all.

*

They were loath to break their touch, fingers entwined at the tips as they trailed back down the stairs, satisfied and love struck. They were at the foot of the creaky staircase when the front door swung open and Sebastian stepped in. 

The older man froze upon seeing Anne and Gilbert before him, dropping his crate of groceries. 

“Hey Bash,” Gilbert spoke up tenderly, unable to mask the lump in this throat. The brothers moved at the same time, clasping each other in a strong hold for several seconds, until Bash opened one arm and gestured for Anne to step in. There they swayed in joy and laughter, a family finally complete again. 

*

“So tell it to me straight, boy,” Bash began slowly from across Gilbert at the dining room table. “How exactly is it that you managed to fight off the great Piper?” 

Gilbert glanced at Anne, taking her hand to steady his nerves at the memory of what he’d gone through. 

“It wasn’t easy, I’ll give you that. I’d been treating a soldier who had a leg injury. The wound had become infected and he was moving a lot slower due to fever. Our medical tent fell under enemy fire, I went out to assist him. A bullet struck a gas tank, and well,” Gilbert gestured at his amputated leg, “you can see what happened.” 

“I still don’t understand how your identification papers got stolen,” Anne said. “How was it possible they didn’t know it was you that died.” 

Gilbert looked down at the woodgrain of the table and sighed.

“My picture of you was included in the papers. Soldiers don’t carry around pictures of women they don’t love, I suppose. My own amputation became infected and I barely made it to an Ally medical tent in time. That’s when I wrote that odd letter you received, Anne. But they moved me around too much and after my papers were stolen, no one knew who I was.” 

“It’s a miracle you’re home,” Bash exhaled. “One that will make me a church-going man. I don’t think I’ll forget my nightly prayers now.”

“No,” Gilbert laughed. “I don’t think I will either.” 

*

At the end of the night, when all the stories had been told and all the tears had been shed, Gilbert walked Anne back to Green Gables. Through the window frame, Anne caught Marilla’s eye, who must have seen the pair strolling up the lane. Marilla brought a hand up to her mouth, then moved it down to her heart. 

“Well, I don’t think Avonlea is going to forget this anytime soon. I know I won’t,” Anne said quietly. She stood a head taller than Gilbert on her front steps, the perfect height to brush back his dark hair. “That’s alright. We were due for some good news.” 

“We were,” Gilbert agreed reverently, leaning into her touch. “You’ll come over tomorrow?” 

“Mhm. I want to be there when the doctor gets there to check your wound.”

“Good. As soon as I’ve settled in a little bit, I’d like to go into town and pick out a real troth ring and gold bands.” Anne traced her nails over the contours of his hands.

“I was thinking that maybe we should have another ceremony - you know, for our friends and family,” she suggested.

A breeze swept past them, the island’s way of agreeing. 

“I think that sounds nice,” Gilbert replied with a smile. “I’ve always wanted to see you in a white gown and a lace veil.” 

“Heavens, anything to avoid having to confront Mrs. Lynde with the truth that we  _ eloped _ .” 

“That can stay our secret.” The love drunk expression had returned to his eyes, and Anne felt herself mimicking the warmth right back at him. “Get some rest, darling. You’ve had a difficult few weeks.” 

“Yes doctor,” Anne murmured, sending a shiver down Gilbert’s spine. “You too. Sleep plenty tonight. I’ll be by as soon as I can tomorrow. I don’t even want to let you out of my sight.” 

Gilbert tilted his head up, letting his eyes fall closed when the night breeze carried the sweet smell of her hair to him. Anne met him halfway, pressing her lips against his for what seemed like the billionth time. She didn’t care, though. She’d never tire of adding kisses to the neverending of tender touches they shared. 

“I love you terribly, Gilbert,” she whispered when they parted. “Thank you for keeping your promise to come home to me.” 

Gilbert snuck another kiss onto her and forced himself back a step. 

“I love you too, Queen Anne. Thank you for never giving up on me, for bringing me home.” 

She watched him leave, with his crutch and his chin held high, until he had disappeared into the shadows of the night. Marilla was waiting for her when she moved onto dreamy feet back into her own home, but Anne only shook her head. 

“He’s alive, Marilla. That’s all there is to it.” 

The complete story could wait until the morning. For now, that small phrase was all that was needed to give Anne and Green Gables its usual life back, colorful and jubilant. She stood alone in her room, body and heart tired from the oscillation of events that day. In the candlelight she whispered her thanks to the universe, to the kindness of fate who had delivered her love back home to her. 

“It is like Marilla always quotes,” Anne murmured as she tucked herself into bed. “‘Weeping may endure for the night, but joy cometh in the morning.’”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is my sincere hope that you've enjoyed this! ♥ Thank you for traveling on this journey with me, with all its ups and downs. Your support and comments were so greatly appreciated. If you'd like to come chat sometime, I'm on tumblr as @royalcordelia.


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